


Waltz With Me, My Love

by amai_kaminari, Clarounette, kageillusionz, kitsygirl (readercat), luninosity, orphan_account, shellikybookie, significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Canon - Musical, Curry, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Musicals, Round Robin, Tango, X-Men the Musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amai_kaminari/pseuds/amai_kaminari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/pseuds/kageillusionz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat/pseuds/kitsygirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellikybookie/pseuds/shellikybookie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's an X-Men Musical Extravaganza," James says, over the phone. "One-night thing. For charity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The McFassy Round Robin Fic of 2014! Title from Tonic's "Waltz With Me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one by luninosity.

James calls on a Saturday morning, a morning full of vivid sunshine and scattered clouds and blue horizons and the familiar shapes of London buildings carving history old and new into the skyline. Michael’d been out for a run, and consequently sprints up the stairs to his flat when he hears the phone ringing behind the door, and launches himself across the room with heroic sweaty effort.

This effort fails. Two seconds too late. He glares at the phone, blinks exertion out of his eyes, hits the button.

James answers laughing like the soul of the world, pure merriment and rich slow spiced whisky and mischievous sweet gold. “Did I interrupt you setting your kitchen on fire again? Because I will completely come over with an extra pair of hands for clean-up plus consolation vodka.”

“It was Guinness beef stew,” Michael says, standing in his living room, panting, sticky with drying sweat and adrenaline, pants and shirt clinging to his body, smiling so widely his cheeks ache. James, on his phone. James and that voice. “And you ate it anyway. When do I get to make dinner for you again? Are you in London?”

“I am, as it happens.” There’s a rustle of motion on the other end. Michael tries to picture the scene: James curled up in one of his overstuffed chairs, maybe, or leaning on a countertop in his kitchen with the drifting scent of tea curling up over freckles and long eyelashes. James wearing fewer layers, no concealing sweaters or protective-armor scarves today, because it’s a nice morning and the London sunshine can tease pale Scottish skin through wide windows. James gets cold too easily, in defiance of all the exuberant energy; Michael’s always vaguely wondered whether those two facts’re related, as if in giving so much of his warmth to friends and family and film roles James keeps none for himself.

He’s also always wanted to wrap long arms around sturdy shoulders and give a little heat back, whatever he could, whatever James might accept. He’s wanted that for so long he can’t even recall when the yearning started. A fact of his life, it is now, accepted and unassailable. The sky’s blue—well, they’re in London, so the sky’s ninety percent of the time grey, but close enough—and the Glasgow accent coming over his phone makes him smile and he always wants to hold James.

James is his friend. James hugs everyone. James smiles at the world.

James looks at him with slight surprise every time Michael pulls him close at premieres, while filming in bitter wind, caught doing interviews under rain. As if the thought, those thoughts, have never occurred to playful blue-topaz eyes.

They probably haven’t. James _is_ his friend. A good one. Better than he is.

James is also still talking. “…and yesterday I rode an elephant through Buckingham Palace. Look, I know when you’re not listening, am I distracting you? Just tell me it’s not a good time.”

“No!” Too loud, too desperate. He’s clinging to the phone. “No. Sorry. How’d you even fit on an elephant? Aren’t you sort of mouse-sized?”

“Oh, hilarious, you are.” The accent burrs like amused gilt in his ear. Michael looks around for someplace to sit that won’t be injured by his post-run dripping disgusting self, and ends up on his kitchen floor, flopped into an ungainly long-legged heap and not caring at all.

“Anyway,” James says, “yes, I’m in London, as of last night, and have you checked your email—no, never mind, I know you haven’t, go check.”

“I’m on the floor. And I haven’t showered. Check for me.”

“On the floor? What were you—y’know, forget that, I don’t want to know. Okay. So you know the interview we did, a bit ago?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Michael says, “and I don’t have sex on the floor of my flat, James.” This is both true and untrue. That floor’s gamely supported a few overly enthusiastic encounters in the past—but nothing lately. He’s not brought anyone back here for…well, years, he guesses. Since the first time James had come over for dinner, wandered around inquisitively among movie-shelves and super-car magazines and glinting bar-ware, and then come back to the kitchen and announced, “I like your place, it feels like you.”

He adds, “Also, which interview? We do kind of a lot of interviews. I can’t read your mind, you know.”

“No, that’s my job. You get to play with metal and also fly. Didn’t I once say you’d have to fly me places? Get on that. I’m waiting to be chauffeured, here.”

Michael closes his eyes. His kitchen floor’s cool and sympathetic when he flattens a hand over tile. “Whenever you call me, I’ll be there.”

“Isn’t that a song,” James says, and starts humming—purposefully off-key because James can in fact sing and they both know it—and Michael growls with mostly-feigned indignation and starts singing properly. Whenever you want me, I’ll be there. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there. I’ll be around.

James pauses for a heartbeat after they finish the chorus, so fleeting Michael suspects in the next instant he’s imagined the hesitation. “Actually, that’s…kind of related. The interview. The one where we talked a lot of fuckin’ nonsense about an X-Men Musical.”

“…oh God.”

“Pretty much. One-night thing, for charity, everyone’s horribly excited and you should seriously check your email instead of having sex on your floor. They want to know if we’re in and if we can sing and possibly dance. Ian and Patrick are also very much in. Extremely in.”

“Oh God.”

“I don’t think Jen’s answered yet, and Hugh only replied with what I’m pretty sure is a dancing Wolverine emoticon, so I’m guessin’ that’s a yes.”

“…are you? In?”

“Well…yeah, I mean, why wouldn’t I?” James sounds both flippant and pensive, a combination that should be impossible, but James can do the impossible, that’s a given. Michael, eyes still closed, sees that mobile face: eyebrows scrunched together, teeth nibbling a lower lip. “Probably make a fuckin’ idiot of myself, yeah, but it’s a good cause, and it’s one night, and—but I won’t if you’re not. I mean. I told them that. Can’t make an idiot of myself without you.”

“You—” He stops. Breathes. James can’t mean that the way he’s hearing it. Friends. Right. “When?”

“Ah…not until December sometime. Working around our schedules. Rehearsal time. Come on, it’ll be fun, you can teach me ballet moves and watch me trip over my own fuckin’ feet while we practice. Say yes.”

Yes forever. Yes for James, forever. “We want the same thing,” he says, “you and I.”

Laughter over the line at the quote. He’s made blue eyes grin. “Well, if we both want me to step on your feet five hundred times, then yeah.”

“You’re not that bad.” James isn’t, really. He’s got good hips and natural grace and a decent sense of rhythm. He’s unfortunately also, as determined by countless interview performances and on-set spontaneous dance-offs, the person most likely to accidentally start on the wrong foot or get distracted or end up self-aware and laughing through sudden embarrassment.

“You,” James says, “told reporters, out loud, on record, that I can’t dance. So I’m hardly going to believe you now. Anyway, that’s a yes, you did say yes, so email us all back and we’ll work out rehearsal times and also come over for dinner tonight, I’m making curry and pineapple cream-cakes and you’re bringing good scotch.”

“I am?”

“Yep.”

“For how many?” James does like to feed people. Likes seeing everyone warm and taken care of and comfortable, feeling at home.

“Just us. I’ve only been here since last night, remember. Haven’t called anyone. You and me and whatever’s in my kitchen.”

It’s not a date. It’s not. It’s just that James cares about friends. It’s just that James doesn’t want him to be alone.

He doesn’t want James to be alone, not James with that quick smile and ready kindness, not ever.

He says, looping an arm around his knees, left leg starting to protest its bent position, “Should I be sort of nervous about the whatever’s in your kitchen part? Also yes. Around eight?”

“Seven-thirty and you can help with the chicken. X-Men versus the Kitchen Monster. It’s a plot point. Messy. Covered in curry powder. And we can throw around ideas. No clue what storyline they’re using, but we should have some input.”

“I can help tame your chicken,” Michael agrees. “Seven-thirty. Anything, um, else? That you want me to sort of bring?” His heart. The sun. Eternal devotion.

“Hmm…no, think I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael promises, one more time, one more time because he can. James says, “Groovy,” and hangs up, leaving Michael to laugh helplessly at the darkened screen on his mobile phone, sitting in his workout clothes in the middle of his kitchen floor, in love.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by significantowl.

Michael isn’t late, but the chicken has already been subdued by the time he arrives, chopped into bite-sized chunks and waiting to be added to the curry. Time had spun so slowly after James’ call, trapping Michael in a delicate web and holding him fast. Knowing James was here in London, home, after weeks away…. He’d spent the entire afternoon wanting to break free, show up on James’ doorstep hours early, just to see that smile.  
  
But even knowing he’d get that smile - a friend at his door, what else would James do? - Michael couldn’t. It would have been an imposition. And Michael never wants to ask James for more than he wishes to give.  
  
Tamed chicken or no, there’s still cooking to be done, and James puts Michael to work dicing potatoes. They’ve already been boiled and cooled, and when he’s done they’ll get a browned with shallots and cumin seeds and ginger. James’ kitchen is a little more cluttered than Michael’s, with a little less counter space, but it just means they’re working at each other’s elbows, and Michael can’t complain about that.  
  
“Here comes the noise,” James says, then presses down on the lid of his coffee grinder, running coriander seeds through it instead of beans. When the assault on his ears stops, Michael glances over to see James sniffing the coriander, eyes closed, lashes dark against his pale skin, enraptured.  
  
“You’re huffing the spices again,” Michael says. He keeps his voice light, cuts out all trace of annoyance - and truly, he’s _not_ annoyed, it’s simply that anything that can transport James like that, take him to a place so unselfconscious and shameless, is something with a power Michael doesn’t have. He wishes he did.  
  
“It’s part of my process,” James says, eyes fluttering open. He’s grinning. “You try handling an open container of this stuff and not dragging every bit of it into your lungs that you can. Go on.”   
  
And of course Michael does. He rests his fingertips over James’ when James holds the base of the grinder in front of his nose, breathes in the sweetness and the spice. There’s the lightness of lemon and rich darkness of the earth, layer upon layer of complexity that’s so far removed from the sharp green smell of coriander leaves it’s shocking it comes from the same plant.  
  
But seeds are not flowers, and what hides in the dark is never quite the same as what meets the light.  
  
Michael drops his hand; James draws his away. They fall back into the rhythm of preparing dinner together. Two friends, side-by-side.

It's a good meal they make, there in James' snug kitchen. James has a good hand with the spices, knows how to keep the dish flavourful without being overpowering, and every bite is warm and delicious and sinks into Michael’s soul. The potatoes James taught him to make are a perfect accompaniment, the ginger dancing lightly on Michael’s tongue as he pops them into his mouth. He’d thought they would save the scotch until last, drinks after dessert, but James had said, “Pour us a glass, mate,” as he’d set the plates on the table, and now Michael’s finding out just how wonderfully whisky goes with Indian food.  
  
“Always trust a Scot,” James says when Michael tells him so. Michael tips his glass in acknowledgment before letting the next sweet, mellow sip chase the spice down.  
  
“I do,” Michael says, but the words that follow tumble out of his mouth without his consent. “I know you didn’t just have all this in your kitchen, though.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying it, he doesn’t _want_ to be a prick, but spices and potatoes and frozen chicken are one thing. They keep. But the dessert that’s waiting, fresh pineapple, fresh cream? No.  
  
Oh. He doesn’t like it when James makes light of his own efforts. That’s why.  
  
“Well no, not quite everything, no,” James says. There’s a tiny pause, a breath of awkwardness, and then - “You’re not complaining about the loo roll I bought as well, are you? Because that’s easily sorted.” He half-rises, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, the implication: You want it gone? Done.  
  
“Oh, sit yourself down,” Michael says, pretending to grumble but failing. He’s smiling, now, and James is too. “Just… drink your scotch and let me clear this away. And serve dessert. All right?”  
  
“And top off my glass,” James says, and Michael is happy to do that, too.  
  
The cream-cakes look gorgeous and taste even better, and for a while there’s only the happy silence of two men savouring every bite. James is licking the last of the pineapple cream off his fork when he brings up the musical for the first time that evening. “How many duets do you think we’ll have to do, then?”  
  
“Four,” Michael answers promptly, with all the clarity two glasses of good whisky brings. “Miami, Cuba, the plane, the stadium.”  
  
“Hmm.” James’ tongue darts out, running along his lip. Either he thinks there’s a wayward bit of cream, or he’s just deep in contemplation, Michael can’t tell. It’s mesmerising regardless. “If they go with the plots of both films, yeah. You’d better teach me how to tango now.”  
  
“Tango? You think?”

“A desperate conversation between two bodies,” James flutters his fingers vaguely overhead, “beneath a tropical sky? That’s Cuba. You bet.” He looks at Michael, something quiet and serious stealing into his eyes. “Teach me?”  
  
It’s a terrible idea. Michael’s brain is shutting down at the thought of doing a true, closed-embrace tango with James, right here in his kitchen. That solid, strong body pressed along his front, his hands all over James’ back, arms, hips, guiding him…. But James wants him to say yes. James probably thinks he’s going to make a fool of himself, and he wants to do it for the first time with nobody but Michael watching. That makes sense. But here and now, with James flushed and warm in his arms, and just enough alcohol in them both, Michael’s desperately afraid of the fool he’ll make.  
  
But would saying no to James be the worst idea of all?   
  
Maybe he can do this. Maybe Michael can put his right arm tight across James’ back, shift forward on his left leg, and there, under the bright lights of James’ kitchen, they can try a new rhythm together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Clarounette.

James is so fucking close Michael feels his warmth through his shirt. How would it be to have him pressed against his torso? The thought only is enough to make him hesitate. Right before he puts his arm around the smaller man, he's hit by an idea.  
  
"We need music!" He plucks his phone from his pocket and searches through his playlist. His index finger brushes the screen and he focuses on that. Anything to avoid James' expectant look.  
  
He hates to admit that he has a large selection of tango music on his phone. He is supposed to be a fierce rock lover. To breathe and eat and shit heavy metal. But right now, his passion for exotic music is coming handy. He finally finds a song he likes and walks to the living-room to put the phone on James' amplification system. The first notes of a piano comes out of the speakers, soon lost in the crying sound of a bandoneon.  
  
James has followed him. "Tango argentino?"  
  
"Is there any other ?" Michael asks, enjoying the delicious melody of Tango apasionado. He turns around. "First, the stance. Stand straight but relaxed." Keeping at a safe distance, he gives more instructions to James with nods and waves of his hand, until he's satisfied.  
  
The song is over, but Michael has put it on a loop. He wants to dance with James to this music, to this display of passion and love. As he looks at James, he realizes how much this tango expresses what he's felt for a long time now : a terrible longing, tainted with melancholy, but with a speckle of hope.  
  
"Now, for the walk. Cross your legs. Toes first on the ground. That's it. Slowly." James is surprisingly a natural. His hips sway gracefully, in rhythm with the swing of his arms and the slow beat of the song. James walks to him in this fashion until he's right in front of him.  
  
"Perfection," Michael says. And it's true, James did it like a pro. But the mention of this particular line from _First Class_ makes James groan and roll his eyes. "Sorry."  
  
James smiles. "It's okay. What now?"  
  
With James this close, Michael has the hardest time remembering the next step. He shakes his head. "Lift your arms, shoulder's height." James does, and Michael enters his personal space, slipping his right arm under James' left one and putting his hand between his shoulder blades. James reaches up to put his own hand on Michael's shoulder, but he's so much smaller that his arms rise too high. "No!" Michael stops him. "Never higher than your shoulder. It'll ruin your stance."  
  
"But what should I do?" James asks, puzzled.  
  
"Put them on my arms, elbows out." He then takes James' right hand. This way, they share a bubble of space so tiny that Michael can smell James' conditioner and the spicy perfume of his breath.  
  
The music starts again at that exact moment and Michael, taken away, begins an ocho, bending slightly at the knees and crossing his legs once, twice, in a seductive walking motion, staring right into James' eyes.  
  
When he stops and stands straight once again, a sudden tension fills the air. Heavy words can't get past their lips, falling at the bottom of their lungs. The bandoneon keeps playing in the background, but they can't hear it.  
  
They both startle when James' phone rings.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by amai_kaminari.

Time stops for a heartbeat.

Another ring.

Some small – okay, maybe not so small – part of Michael hopes that James will ignore the ringing, but the thought dies before it has a chance to take root. James wouldn't do that to someone. Ignore them. Make them feel unimportant. James’ greatest gift as both an actor and a friend is that he can make anyone feel like the only person in the world. Jen said the same thing once.

It takes Michael another moment to recognize the ringtone as the theme music to Star Trek.

James definitely isn't going to ignore _that. ___

__Michael’s disappointment at having their moment interrupted lasts for only as long as it takes for him to look up and catch the grin lighting up James' face._ _

__"Patrick!" James says brightly into the phone after wrestling it out of his pocket. "Um, I mean _Sir_ Patrick! Or should I just call you ‘Sir?’ Either way, it's good to hear from you!"_ _

__Hearing the word ‘Sir’ spoken in that Scottish brogue causes a vague stirring in the pit of Michael’s stomach, but he quashes the feeling before he can think about it any further. Now is _not_ the time. Maybe not ever, but certainly not now._ _

__"Hold on a minute? I've got Michael over. Let me put you on speaker?"_ _

__James’ grin grows wider as their eyes meet._ _

__Sighing inwardly, Michael shakes his head with a smile. Dark moods never could stand a chance against that smile. Thinking about it, he's actually a little impressed that Erik could maintain a dour disposition in front of Charles for more than 5 minutes, much less throughout two movies._ _

__“I’ll do the same,” Patrick says on the other side of the line, “That way Ian can share his news with you.”_ _

__“Oh? And what news would that be?” Blue eyes twinkle with mischief._ _

__There’s a brief moment of rustling and static._ _

__“Apparently he’s been trying to get a scene written into an X-men movie for years now,” Patrick replies, equal parts amusement and exasperation in his tone, “Why don’t I let him tell you all about it?” Pause. “Dear, why don’t you come over and tell the boys all about your news? I can take over stirring the risotto for the time being.”_ _

__Another rustle._ _

__“No need, darling. This won’t take but a minute.” Ian’s voice now. “Hello, James. Hello, Michael.”_ _

__“So are you going to tell us this news or do you want us to die of suspense?” Michael grouses without any heat when he finally finds his voice again._ _

__“Such impatience.” Ian replies bemusedly, “Didn't I always say that youth is wasted on the young, darling?”_ _

__“I believe that was George Bernard Shaw, dear,” Patrick responds, sounding like he can barely suppress a laugh._ _

__"We won't be young for much longer if you two don't stop flirting and get on with it already!" James interjects with a grin of his own._ _

__"Very well." Ian says with an exaggerated put-upon sigh, “Here it is: Since Patrick proposed to me this weekend, I thought it would make a nice engagement present to finally get that[ special scene](http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2006/04/21/ian-mckellen-dreams-of-x-men-gay-scene/) we've been wanting for years now. It never made it into any of the X-men movies, so I called young Caleb and convinced him to write it and include it into the musical."_ _

__"WHAT? You're engaged?" The exclamation is out of Michael's mouth before he can stop himself. "And what special scene? And you're engaged?!"_ _

__He meets James' glance, who simply smirks at him._ _

__"Michael's just surprised because he's out 50 quid." James laughs, smile playful and just shy of smug. It's a good look on him. "I made him a bet that you two would finally tie the knot this year."_ _

__Michael tries to glare at him. And fails._ _

__"And I do believe congratulations are in order,” James continues smoothly, “So congratulations!"_ _

__When his brain clicks back on, Michael flushes at his own rudeness and stammers quickly, "Yes, absolutely! Congratulations to both of you!"_ _

__"Thank you, my boys," Ian replies, “And as soon as Caleb is done with Magneto and Professor X's special scene, I'll be sure to send it along for your thoughts."_ _

__"I'm sure the scene will be a good one, whatever it is." Michael says earnestly. "He did a great job as Banshee. And I heard that he writes all the music for his band and plays a half dozen instruments."_ _

__"You're one to talk, Mr. I-sing-and-dance-and-play-a-dozen-instruments," James murmurs playfully into his ear._ _

__Michael starts, barely stopping himself from jumping out of his skin. When had James gotten so close?_ _

__"And if you two would like Caleb to write Erik and Charles a similar 'special scene,' I'm sure he can be convinced," Ian says with an odd note to his voice. Something about his tone causes Michael to flush._ _

__"Yes, we all know you can sell sand in a desert, dear." Patrick says affectionately before clearing his throat lightly, “Well, we should probably leave you two boys to your supper. Do come over for dinner when you two have a moment free?"_ _

__"Absolutely!" James jumps in like an eager puppy,"Uh, I mean. Whenever is good for you, um, Sirs."_ _

__"Have a good night," the Sirs say in unison._ _

__"Oh, and James?" Patrick adds._ _

__"Yes?"_ _

__"Space..."_ _

__In his Picard voice._ _

__Then the phone disconnects._ _

__James unleashes a mighty groan and buries his face into Michael's shoulder._ _

__Michael wraps his arms around James and laughs and laughs. He can't help himself._ _

__When his stomach feels like it's going to burst from too much laughing, Michael takes a few deep breaths and looks down at the man in his arms._ _

__"So what now?"_ _

__James looks up at him then, blue eyes bright and skin flushed from laughter._ _

__Michael's mouth goes instantly dry._ _

__James is beautiful._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by kitsygirl!

“Unf!” James face-plants into the sofa, barely holding back his growl of frustration.  Mere _seconds_ before, Michael had been _right there_ , right within his grasp. Then…just as James made his move, Michael jumped up and started pacing. Michael has been eluding his grasp all evening, and James is starting to feel like one of those bumbling vampires whose victim always escapes at the last second--with comedic, but highly frustrating results for the vampire (not that James is a vampire, of course--though he certainly wouldn’t mind sucking Michael’s...).  So, while Michael paces and blethers, seemingly unaware, James flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how this became his life.  
  
He’d _swear_ that Michael had been going to kiss him earlier, when they’d been practicing the Tango--but at the last second, Michael had suddenly pulled away…and James, who’d been leaning into it, had toppled onto his arse.  And _again_ , when they’d taken a break for some telly:  James had leaned in to sniff Michael’s cologne--and nearly caught an elbow to the face when Michael had shot to his feet, announcing that he had to visit the loo.  And now… _the pacing_.  James panics.  _'Oh, God. He_ knows _. He_ knows _and he’s trying to let me down easy!'_    He calms himself.   No, Michael feels _something_ for him--James can’t be _that_ wrong, can he?  _'This is killing me. I’ll be his friend no matter what, but I’ve got to tell him how I feel...and let the chips fall where they may.'_ Completely clueless that the other man’s thoughts almost exactly mirror his own, James looks at Michael, then takes a deep breath and girds his loins.  
  
Michael can’t believe he’d almost kissed James earlier…but the way James had been _looking_ at him!  Thank God, he hadn’t given in to the impulse, remembering at the last minute, it was just James getting into his role and feeling the tango--and he‘d managed to pull away just in time (though dropping James on his arse hadn’t been part of the plan).  He’d nearly given in again, when they had been watching telly, sitting on the sofa so close he could smell James’s cologne and feel his warmth.  He’d had to excuse himself before he did something rash--nearly blacking James’s eye in the process.  And now… _again_ , James had leaned in to speak, and Michael had hallucinated that James was flushed and that his pupils had dilated.  And even though he knew it was just wishful thinking, it was so hard to keep fighting his feelings.  Distracted by these thoughts, even as he yammered on about nothing, Michael nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand land on his shoulder.  
  
“Michael…” James looks so solemn, so unlike himself, that Michael feels sick.  “Michael, we need to talk about something.”  
  
There’s only one reason for James to look so serious.   _'He_ knows _. He_ knows _and he’s going to try to make it easy for me._ Oh, God _. The I-love-you-but-I-don’t-_ LOVE _-you speech is coming.'_  
  
James places both hands on Michael’s shoulders and looks up at him.  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I just…” he breaks off, staring into Michael’s eyes.  Michael leans in, drowning in James’s eyes, even as he waits to have his heart broken.  But, really, he can’t think of a better way to go out.  
  
James continues, “Michael, I--”

**DING-DONG!**  
  
“Oh, I don’t fucking believe this!”  James shouts, looking frustrated.  
  
Michael is startled at James’s outburst (but relieved by the interruption).  “Don’t you think you should get that?” he asks.  “I wonder who it is?”

“Oh, I know _exactly_ who it is!”  James growls, stalking to the door, muttering under his breath, _“Cock-blocking old bastards_.”  
  
“JAMES!  MICHAEL!  I _do_ hope we aren’t interrupting,” The Sirs announce as they sweep into James’s flat--uninvited.  “I wanted to call ahead, but Sir Patrick thought we should surprise you!” Sir Ian finishes.  
  
“Of course.”  James says smoothly, meeting Sir Patrick’s blue-eyed, challenging gaze with his own.  Of course, _indeed_.  The only two people in the world who know of his feelings for Michael.  Feelings revealed during an evening of drunken… _something_ -he-can‘t-quite-remember.  Sir Ian is sympathetic to his plight, being a romantic at heart.  But Sir Patrick is merciless, given his rivalry with James: X-Men, Dune… _Macbeth--_ and as Sir Ian indulges him shamelessly in everything…well, that usually doesn’t bode well for James.  And to top it off--now, a mischievously-grinning Sir Ian winks at him as he makes over a delighted Michael (who‘s made no secret of his massive crush on the older man).  _'Fuck my life'_ , James thinks.

 

 

An hour later, the Sirs are chattering away non-stop about the musical, silently (and not-so-silently) laughing at James’s disgruntlement.  Walking past them as he refills their glasses, he mutters, “Don't you cock-blocking old bastards have anything better to do?”

Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths as they smile sweetly and answer, “Absolutely nothing.”

'Two can play at that', James thinks.  With his own saccharine-sweet smile, James takes a sip of his drink and asks, “Oh, Sir Ian?  Did Sir Patrick mention the fan-boy we ran into the other day?”

Sir Patrick’s eyes narrow in warning, even as they are tinged with panic. _'You wouldn’t'_ , his eyes say.

_'Watch me,'_   James’s eyes say back.

“Why, no, as a matter of fact he didn’t.”  Sir Ian replies, voice silky-smooth.

Sir Patrick looks at Sir Ian and gives an obviously fake laugh.  “Oh, you know how those fan-boys are, my dear!”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Sir Ian answers dryly.

Still sweetly smiling, and holding Sir Patrick‘s gaze, James asks, mock-innocent, “Didn’t he ask you to sign his d…” everyone leans in slightly “…eck?”

Sir Patrick laughs nervously, “See, darling? Nothing more than an entertaining story!”

Then in more of that silky-smooth tone, Sir Ian stands, and says, “Ah, good!  Perhaps you can use it to entertain yourself while you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.  I‘ll meet you in the car, dear.”

The other three men watch in admiration as he sweeps regally out of the room.  You could practically _see_ the cape swirling as he made his exit.

James follows Sir Patrick to the door.  Blue-eyed gaze meets blue-eyed gaze, then Sir Patrick inclines his head, conceding his defeat.  “Well-played, McAvoy. Well-played.” 

James inclines his head, acknowledging his victory.  “Sir Patrick.”

Unable to resist a parting shot, Sir Patrick declares, “My Macbeth is still bigger than your Macbeth.”

 James quirks an eyebrow, “Perhaps, Sir Patrick.  Perhaps.  But as your Macbeth will be residing on the sofa the night, I’d say the issue is rendered moot.”

Sir Patrick hurumphs, his dignity barely hanging on, and turns on his heel.  He makes it almost to the end of the corridor before he breaks down, laughing.  “Until next time, James.  I‘ll one-up you yet, you young pup!”

Laughing, James raises his glass, “Engage.”

James enters the flat, and Michael (who watched the strange exchange between James and Sir Patrick) asks, "Don't you feel bad about their fight?"

James laughs.  "Don't worry--they're probably already shagging as we speak."

"Ok."  He’s drunk and too confused to ponder it overmuch.  One thing he’s _not_ confused about is that James is looking irresistibly hot right now.

An equally drunk James is kinda thinking the same thing about Michael.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by shellikybookie!

_Already shagging_ , Michael thinks. _The lucky old bastards_. But they are. They _are_ lucky to have each other. How many years had Sir Patrick and Sir Ian been friends? How long had it taken the love to grow up between them? How long before they recognised it for what it was, before it settled in and became comfortable and familiar, unquestioned? Michael feels an almost wistful sort of jealousy, and he wonders if it would ever be that way for he and James.  
  
"Beautiful..." he murmurs, and he sees James freeze for a fraction of a second, the glass pausing on its way to his lips. They part on a silent breath.  
  
"Sorry?" James says, and the little laugh he gives seems almost too light, his eyes a little too wide. _And too blue. Too blue_ , Michael thinks.  
  
He knows he's drunk. He knows he's being ridiculously maudlin, but he says, "It's beautiful. Don't you think it's beautiful? Ian and Patrick, you know. After all this time - their whole lives - just sort of finding each other like that? D'you ever think that ---? I don't know. I just... I think it's nice, is all. I'm happy for them. Really." He's aware that he's babbling, and so he stops, and the resulting silence is exactly as awkward as he thought it would be, because he hasn't forgotten - as much as he would like to pretend that he has - what James had been about to say before the doorbell rang. He would put off that moment indefinitely, if he could, but he knows that they've come around to it again, and he only hopes that he hasn't made too much a fool of himself, that the friendship can still be salvaged, because to lose James as a friend would kill him even more surely than knowing that James doesn't feel the same way about him that he feels about James.  
  
"I thought... you were going to say something else," James says quietly after a long moment, and he sounds almost... crestfallen, like Michael had disappointed him somehow. It's absolutely unbearable, and Michael thinks, _Fuck it_. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but if this is it, well then better to just lay it all out - take a deep breath and just say the words that have been suffocating him for weeks, months. Maybe as long as he can remember.  
  
"You are, too," Michael says in a rush. "You're beautiful, and you're brilliant. You're open, and you're generous, and you're nice. You're _way_ too nice. You're funny, and - God! - you're sexy, and I am so fucking in love with you. And I just... needed to say that, okay? I needed you to know. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I can't help it. I can't stop, and I don't know what to do. I just really, really don't want to fuck this up. I don't want to lose what we... I still want to be your friend, if that's what you want me to be. If that's... if you're okay with that."

 

From the first words, _You're beautiful_ , James has been holding his breath. To think that, only an hour ago, he had been agonizing over finding the right words to tell Michael how he felt, and here Michael had worked up the nerve to say it first. He tries to coldly remind himself that Michael is drunk, but he can't honestly believe that Michael doesn't know what he's saying. There have been too many "almosts", too many times where James could have _sworn_ there was something there, and he'd never dared to ask, never dared to push that little bit that would have told him, in case the answer was "no".  
  
Michael is looking at him now with such anxious and earnest hope that James knows he's anticipating rejection. _Idiot, idiot man_. He knows that, with every second that passes while he doesn't respond, Michael's hope dies a little more, and so he does the only thing he can think of to do. He pulls Michael into a tight hug. "You're not gonna lose me. That's not gonna happen," he says, covering Michael's cheek and jaw with urgent and emphatic little kisses that eventually reach his mouth, and then they're _really_ kissing, and it's dizzying. Michael tastes of whiskey, and his hands fist at the back of James' shirt as though Michael is afraid to let him go.  
  
They break apart only when the mutual need for air forces them. They look at each other, both breathing hard and flushed with more than the alcohol they've both consumed, a little drunk and a little dazed, wondering what has just happened.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by [redacted]!

James smiles and kisses him again, quick press of lips.  
  
"That’s my way of saying I love you, too," he says, blue eyes staring into grey-green ones.  
  
"I figured, but it's nice to hear anyway," Michael replies.  
  
James chuckles and kisses him again, like he can’t get enough. And honestly he can’t, he's spent so much time not kissing Michael, not telling him how he feels, too afraid of rejection, of losing him, and now he has him, loves him and is loved by him and he doesn’t want to let him go ever again. The way Michael is looking at him, he knows Michael feels the same way.  
  
"Now what?" James asks, between kisses.  
  
"We're drunk and… I'm clearly not going home tonight," Michael replies, as James continues to place kisses against his cheeks and jaw and neck.  
  
"Nope. You're staying right here with me."  
  
Michael's arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close until James is sitting on his lap. He shifts so his knees are on either side of Michael's legs and continues to kiss him. Michael is right, they’re drunk, and somewhere in the back of James' mind he thinks maybe they should wait, sleep off the alcohol and talk in the morning when they’re sober. But the part of his mind reminding him that he’s waited long enough is louder and James is more inclined to listen to it. And if Michael's hands gripping his ass are any indication, he isn't going to object either.  
  
"Fuck, Michael," James pants, as Michael kisses down his neck, lightly biting at the junction where neck meets shoulder.  
  
He’s hard in his jeans and he can tell when he shifts his hips forward that Michael is too. When he repeats the action, Michael moans and his grip on James' hips tightens. James does it again.  
  
"If you want this to last…" Michael says.  
  
"I just want you," James replies.  
  
He moves closer and puts his arms around Michael's neck as he kisses him again. Their hips rock together and Michael is right, it isn't going to last. James doesn’t care. He wants this and clearly Michael does, too. They'll have time to make it last next time. And there will be a next time and many more after that.  
  
James grips Michael's hair just above the nape of his neck. One of Michael's hands moves from James' hip to caress his back. James knows he’s close, the rocking of his hips against Michael's becoming more frantic, the pleasure building and he doesn’t care that he’s going to come in his pants like a damn teenager. It is entirely worth it.  
  
It is only a few more minutes before he comes, pulling Michael's hair a bit as he does. Michael holds him through it, continuing to rub his back and holding him close as his own hips continue to move against James until he comes too. James rests his forehead against Michael's, uncurling his fingers from Michael's hair and rubbing at his neck as they let their breathing even out.  
  
"I think I've got some clothes, if you need them," James says, sitting up again and moving from Michael's lap to sit next to him on the couch.  
  
"Yeah?" Michael asks, eyebrow raised quizzically.  
  
"Yeah. I've got some sweatpants that are a bit long on me. Besides, I'm not even half a foot shorter than you and if anything, your waist is thinner than mine, so you'll probably have to tighten the ties."  
  
James resists the urge to stick out his tongue as Michael laughs.  
  
"Fair enough," Michael says. "A shower might be nice, too."  
  
"I think that's doable."

James smiles at him. Michael stands up first and pulls James to his feet. Michael disappears into the bathroom while James grabs clothes for them both. Michael has stripped out of his clothes and started the shower when James enters the bathroom.  
  
"Here," James says, handing the sweatpants and a t-shirt to Michael.  
  
He sets his own down on the counter and strips out of his clothes, leaving them in the pile Michael has started. He’ll remember to start them in the wash once they’re out of the shower. He looks at Michael while they wait for the water to finish heating up, admiring his naked body. Michael is admiring him, too, so James grins at him.  
  
"Come on, water's hot enough now," he says.  
  
"Alright," Michael replies.  
  
He pulls back the curtain and climbs into the shower, James soon following him. After the initial effort to clean themselves, the shower becomes more about lazy kisses and excuses to touch each other under the guise of getting clean. Eventually the water begins to go cold and they quickly shut it off. James grabs his towel and climbs out first, grabbing another towel and tossing it at Michael.  
  
Once dressed and their clothes in the wash, they head to James' bedroom. The sweatpants mostly fit, only a bit of Michael's ankles exposed to the cool night air. James starts to climb into bed, when he realizes that Michael is standing hesitantly nearby.  
  
"Come here," James says, sitting on the edge of the bed and motioning for Michael to come to him.  
  
Michael walks over and stands in front of him, letting James hold his hands.  
  
"I love you," James says, looking up at Michael, "and I want you and I want you here."  
  
"So you'll still want me in the morning?" Michael asks, trying to sound teasing but James can see the truth in his eyes.  
  
"Yes. I've wanted you for so long and I'm not letting you go now."  
  
To emphasize his point, James pulls Michael down onto the bed with him and kisses him.  
  
"I love you," he whispers against Michael's lips.  
  
"I love you, too," Michael whispers back.  
  
James kisses him one more time, before they curl into the bed, James' arms around Michael holding him close as he spoons him from behind, being the big spoon to Michael's little spoon. And that is how they fall asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by garrideb!

"I thought it was the dress rehearsal that was supposed to be a fuckin' disaster," James moans.   
  
Michael puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes, wordless support infused in the hug, as warm as any cup of tea. A second later Michael drops a kiss to his forehead, like a sugar cube dropped into the tea. James smiles. In the months they've been together he's never been happier. Even on days like today it's hard to stay gloomy.   
  
"Don't worry," Michael says. His breath ruffles James's hair. "Our stage manager will find us a place to practice."  
  
They desperately need to practice. It's only a week until the big performance, and there are still lots of kinks to iron out. And they would be happily practicing right now, except some rotten bastard had called in a bomb threat to a nearby building. They'd had to clear out, cast and directors and stage hands filing out of their theater into the cool and crisp day outside. It'll be several hours until police clear them to go back inside, and they don't have time to waste.   
  
"I hate people," James announces. Michael smiles. "Sometimes," James amends. Michael's eyes crinkle as his smile grows. "Not often," James corrects. "But whoever called in that threat is a bastard."  
  
"No argument here."  
  
The thing is that James is really looking forward to the X-Men musical. It had started as a wild idea for a charity, half-joke and half-genuine fondness for the franchise, but it's morphed into something that might actually be _good_. They've got a director who lives, breathes, and preaches musicals. He's fond of lecturing them all at the drop of a hat: musicals can be just as serious as other story-telling formats; songs should not interrupt the story or feel arbitrary, but should feel like natural outpourings of emotion; the dancing needs to provide spectacle _and_ function as metaphor. James has heard every lecture twice. At least.   
  
But the passion is contagious. And if this performance is good instead of just a good-intentioned funny idea, they'll raise more money to help more people. There'll be DVD sales after all, and possibly future shows in other cities if the response is strong enough.   
  
Already the buzz is fantastic, and not just among X-Men fans. The general public is curious.   
  
Now they just have to work their asses off or they'll disappoint everyone.   
  
"You're thinking about _Turn Off the Dark_ , aren't you?" Michael asks. "You know that's our director's first rule. No thinking about _Turn Off the Dark_."  
  
"I'm not, I'm not!"  
  
"Good."  
  
Jennifer Lawrence bounds over to them, her blonde curls whipping about in the breeze. "Get in the car!" she shouts. Kindly, though. She's very good at shouting kindly, James has discovered. "We've got a place to practice!"  
  
They load into a van. James gets squished between Michael and Jen, but he doesn't mind. He's happy to be sitting down again, honestly. He's not feeling great today. Probably a mix of the strenuous physical demands of theater -- and dancing in particular -- and nerves, and the lumpy hotel bed. He's not coming down with anything. No, the aches and chills he woke up with this morning are perfectly explainable. Nothing more than over-exertion and a drafty hotel room. He'll just take a hot bath tonight before sleeping and that should fix everything.

"Here we are," Michael says, and James sits up, confused. He must have slumped against Michael's shoulder and drifted off. Michael is smiling down at him fondly.  
  
"Ugh," Jen pokes him. "You're even cute when you're drooling. That's not fair."  
  
"Wasn't drooling," James mumbles as he wipes apologetically at Michael's jacket with his own sleeve.   
  
"So cute. It's disgusting."  
  
"Back off, he's spoken for," Michael deadpans, the twinkle in his eye giving him away.  
  
"Whatever, you can have him. I can't get drool on this shirt anyway. I think it's dry-clean only."  
  
James scowls.   
  
They get out of the van. Their new practice venue seems to be a large office building. The lobby is nice, and thankfully warmer than the car. "What floor?" James asks as he looks around for any of their crew.   
  
"We're on the roof, actually," comes a familiar voice behind him. James turns around and finds himself facing Emeli Sandé. She gives him a quick hug, and he remembers how excited he'd been when she'd agreed to be in the musical. He's not ashamed to admit that he's a bit of a fanboy. Once they'd learned that Halle Berry was unavailable, she'd been the top choice. Emeli is a perfect Storm, and her solo in the musical transforms an otherwise small role into something memorable.   
  
"Great to see you -- wait, roof?" Her words catch up with him.  
  
"Yeah, they've got a huge roof garden here with a stage and everything. It's already set up."   
  
James sighs and pulls his coat tighter about himself.   
  
"Ororo would love it," Emeli is musing. "I know she had a garden on the school's roof in the comics… oh, by the way, the elevator is broken. It just got stuck an hour ago. We'll have to take the stairs."   
  
James heroically muffles his groan of frustration.   
  
By the time they've ascended the endless stairwell he's sweating and chilly -- the worst combination known to man. The wind is worse up there with nothing to block it. James finds Ian and Patrick and huddles near them while the stage is set for the opening number. A steaming cup of coffee appears at his elbow, and James has grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his face to bask in its almond-scented warmth before he notices that it didn't appear miraculously by itself. Michael is looking down at him with a hint of concern.   
  
He doesn't want Michael to look concerned. The only thing they need to be concerned about is whether they can pull off this musical, especially with this disruption in their practice schedule. It's only a week away and there's so much work to be done.  
  
"I thought it was the dress rehearsal that was supposed to be a fuckin' disaster," James repeats.   
  
Michael shrugs. "We'll probably have a great dress rehearsal, then. But we'll definitely have a fantastic performance. Alright?"  
  
A woman with a megaphone is calling all mutants in the dystopia dance to the stage. Looking into the warmth of Michael's eyes, James can't help but feel optimistic. "Alright," he agrees.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by kageillusionz!

The number that had earlier caused James to sneeze three times in a row goes away by the time their final rehearsal sneaks upon them like a horrible sunburn after a day at the beach.  
  
The last few days are hectic as everyone rushes final preparations towards the opening night. The roof-top garden is abuzz with activity, filled with last minute projects: from pep talks to quadruple-checking props and costumes and the set, to making sure that (Spoilers!) Charles and Erik's big fat gay wedding were ready for the big day.  
  
Honestly, Caleb and Edi had outdone themselves with the script of the X-Men: Musical and getting everyone together again.   
  
James gets the warm and fuzzies watching everyone gather around the tea and biscuit table as soon as afternoon tea is announced, watching as Alex Gonzalez chats away to Rose Byrne, and Jason Flemyng sits with his cup of coffee and the crossword open across his knee.  
  
"You're looking for 'Mastoidectomies' for 16 across," James inputs helpfully as he waits in line for a biscuit, noting with smugness when Jason scribbles that in.  
  
"Cheers."  
  
The line shuffles along and Michael steals in next to him, appearing from seemingly thin air and loops an arm around James' waist. There's a big grin spread over his face. Someone is definitely in a good mood.  
  
"Hi--" And he's being kissed senseless before he can say another word, fingers digging into Michael's sweater (the sweater that looks criminal on Michael's frame and does unfair things to James' libido).  
  
"Oi! Get a bloody room!"  
  
"Save some of that sugar for tomorrow!"  
  
"Actually, no no, I think they should keep going."  
  
"Jen!"  
  
"What? Can't a girl appreciate when two hotties make out right in front of her?"  
  
"I second this notion."  
  
"Thirded. Thirded _so hard_."  
  
When Michael finally parts, his grin unchanged like James' favourite familiar thing. James is a little stunned by the affection he just received. "Yes, okay, I can live with this sort of greeting from now on... until forever. What was that for?"  
  
"You look like someone that should be kissed, and kissed often." Michael nuzzles an ear that sends a shiver down James' spine. "Let's get out of here."  
  
James chuckles and pushes Michael's face gently away. "You know we can't."  
  
"Why not?" Is that a pout that James can spy on Michael's face? Yes. It most definitely is. James can get used to seeing that too, although hopefully not everyday. James likes seeing Michael's smile, the one that is like the breaking of dawn and spreads golden warmth all across the horizon. It is infectious and does things to him.  
  
Instead of swooning like a teenager, James rolls his eyes. "What are you? Fucking five, eh?"  
  
"You just make me so happy," Michael says, his grin softening a smidgen but not making his eye twinkles any less bright.  
  
This time, James can't fight the blush on his cheeks, licking at his lips as if to chase the taste of Michael upon them. "Yes, well... I think you ought to do that again."  
  
Round two is interrupted (to a loud chorus of awws from the cast) when the director walks in, flanked by both Patrick and Ian. They quickly find a seat - Michael perching daintily in James' lap - and smile as they are treated to the last pep talk of the day and then dismissed early for a full night's rest.  
  
The cast unanimously decide to have dinner together in celebration, a loud raucous bunch filled with merriment and laughter. James is incredibly fond of everyone in the cast. Everyone brings such energy to the table - both the dinner table and otherwise - and it is just a genuine pleasure to work alongside the greatest thespians Britain has produced.  
  
After the great debacle of paying for the bill, James and Michael split a cab with Peter and eventually stumble up into Michael's flat. Tomorrow is the big day and come hell or high water, they will deliver Charles and Erik's Greatest Love Story (TM) to the world in their best performance ever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by luninosity!
> 
> And we're done! Thanks to everyone for playing and for reading along! <3

Opening night. Which is also closing night, seeing as how it’s a single-event performance. The house is sold out. The various charities receiving proceeds are no doubt ecstatic. The curtain’s still down, ten minutes to go, and the stage itself is hushed and poised and full of anticipation, though backstage is noisy and cheerful and suffused with bustle. Michael’s holding James’ hand, stage left, not exactly under a ladder; they’re not on first—the Future Past story framing scenes will set up Erik and Charles being in love in the years to come—and they have a scene or two to wait and watch. To hold hands.  
  
They’ll come on together, though not simultaneously. Different wings for entrances. Miami. First meetings. Complicated choreography; less a specific style and more about flashy moves, James jumping down from the upper stage, Michael and James spinning around each other in blue watery lighting. Holding each other, of course.  
  
Holding each other. The way Erik and Charles should be; the way Michael gets to hold James now, here under the backstage timbers and painted bits of scenery, here with a slight smudge of eyeliner under James’ left eye and laughter in the quirk of James’ lips, as those eyes glance up at him. “Nervous?”  
  
“Would Magneto ever be nervous,” Michael says, and holds James’ hand a little tighter.   
  
“Maybe.” James studies the lowered curtain, the flat expanse of stage. “About asking Charles a question. Y’know. That question.”  
  
That question. Yes. It’ll happen on stage, between Patrick and Ian; it’ll happen at last for Erik and Charles.  
  
Magneto probably would, Michael thinks, tell himself that it’s sound strategy, that they’ve been practically married for years, that of course Charles will agree. He might even believe his own arguments. But he’d still be nervous. If it’s not perfect, Charles might not be pleased, and that is an undesirable outcome.  
  
He can feel the warmth of James’ fingers curled around his, freckled and steady and sure. That’s a very desirable outcome. Not one he’d ever dared to hope for, only imagined, only wanted, with every breath.  
  
James loves him. James wants him. James isn’t ill or injured, not now at least—though Michael’s heart skips one unhappy beat, recalling that rehearsal day, recalling James white-faced and wobbly and pushing himself through steps without properly seeing anyone around him. Michael’d caught him when he’d tripped halfway through the tango, and then had cursed out loud and dragged his too-stubborn other half off to the closest hospital for desperate attempts to bring his fever down.  
  
They’d been successful attempts. James had been fine. James is fine. They’ve had a Talk, capital letter well-deserved, about James and the tendency to stay quiet about his own needs while taking care of everyone else’s, about pineapple cream and tango practice and first kisses and the need they share, the need to never lose each other. And James _is_ fine, and the show’s about to go on.   
  
Charity and glitter and good causes. Same-sex marriage equality, for one, being promoted on stage.  
  
On this stage. The X-Men Musical, of all ludicrous and magnificent things. The thing without which he’d’ve never made it here, holding James’ hand.

He echoes, “That question,” stealing James’ words very quietly, almost under his breath, very aware of each centimeter of James’ skin touching his. Every callus, every softer spot, every freckle, every joint and knot of bone, every old nick and tiny scar.  
  
James looks up, away from the open waiting space of their stage. Smiling. Lighting up the shadowyalcove where they’re waiting in the wings.  
  
Michael says, “I like dancing with you, y’know?”  
  
James laughs. “Once I stopped tripping over your feet, you mean? Yeah, I like dancing with you too, you know I do.” Delivered with a hand-squeeze. Firm underscoring of affection.  
  
Hugh wanders by and wolf-whistles, not even subtly, and disappears.  
  
Michael shakes his head; James is still grinning, and the moment’s somehow even more perfect, not broken at all but hanging scattered theatre-bone sawdust like aureate stars in the air. He says, “If this works out, we should do it every year. Like, y’know, Soccer Aid. But musical theatre.”  
  
“Musical Mutant Superhero Aid,” James agrees thoughtfully. “I could be in. With you, obviously. If you don’t mind bein’ stepped on. More.”  
  
“Take my toes,” Michael says, “I’ll sacrifice them to you. Gladly, even.”  
  
“Every year,” James says, “you and your toes may regret that, and I love you, you ridiculous man.”  
  
“I love you,” Michael says right back, heart in the words, heart in his throat, “and I regret nothing about this, and every year, yes, sort of forever, you know that, James, I love you.”  
  
And James takes a deep breath, eyes shining. Standing there with him, beside him, four minutes to curtain. “That question, then. What you said. Not now—not when we’ve got a show to do and we’re dressed as superheroes and I can come up with something better for you, I can make plans, I swear, but would you want—”  
  
 _“We_ can make plans, you mean,” Michael interrupts, as his heart tries to pour itself out into the syllables, lighter than air and more radiant. “Tomorrow night sort of plans. We can stay in and make curry and I’ll run out and pick up good whiskey—” And a ring, but he’s not going to give that particular idea away. Nor will he admit to having already had a few designs in mind.  
  
“And we can reenact our version of the tango in our living room?”  
  
Michael squeezes his hand right back, because blue eyes’re sparkling like the future opened up before them, because of that _our,_ because that’s the question _and_ the answer; squeezes his hand and says, “Yes.”


End file.
